


nothing I’d like better than to fall

by PepperF



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Assassin AU, But i have to say, F/M, John Wick AU, John Wick not actually in this AU, knowledge of John Wick not required, my thing for Keanu Reeves is still alive and well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: "Did you lose a fight with a lawnmower?"Clarke snorted, and then yelped when he poured antiseptic over the wound, the sensation both burning and freezing. "Fuck. That’s your guess?"He dabbed at it, trying to clean off the mess. "My next guess was two lawnmowers.""Russian mob," she admitted.The vet’s hands paused for a second, and then continued, moving slowly and carefully. "They still after you?""No. I didn’t lose."





	nothing I’d like better than to fall

**Author's Note:**

> I watched _John Wick_ like three times in the past week, and then Chash posted an alternate POV fic for the one where Bellamy is a vet, and... this happened. I'm not going to feel too guilty about my other obligations because this took maybe two hours tops, not including editing. Knowledge of the movie not required for reading.
> 
> (I love everything about _John Wick_ except how they fridged his wife, both because UGH NOT ANOTHER ONE, GOD, YOU DIDN'T EVEN GIVE HER ANY PERSONALITY OTHER THAN 'LOVES DAISIES', and also because, from a character development POV, it wasn't clear why we should care, other than Keanu Reeves' stellar ability to make people [read: me] feel sorry for him and want to hug him and make everything better. But the assassin's guild stuff was cool. And I loved the puppy, _you monsters_.)
> 
> With thanks, as always, to Bethany for the beta—and her continued patience. ;)

Only when it was all over—after Cage Wallace had died screaming, as she had promised, the light in his eyes fading even as she turned and stumbled away through the rain, the sharp agony in her side clamoring for attention over the dozens of other cuts and bruises scattered liberally over her body—did she let herself wonder... what next?

Well, her immediate future needed to involve some medical attention ASAP, but after that? She let the thought hang as she staggered to the nearest functional vehicle and hauled herself painfully into the driver’s seat, and forced herself and the car along roads she could barely see with one busted headlamp and an oncoming black eye, the wind whipping in through the hole where the door had once hung and the rain slamming with dangerous force into the cracked windshield. She ignored it as a familiar symbol caught her eye, the rod and snake that signified some kind of healthcare, and she steered the car towards it, too exhausted to hit the brakes as it collided with the low wall outside the clinic. Thankfully, she’d been going at a lower speed than she’d thought—it was possible she had a concussion—so the impact was mild. It was nothing compared to the rest of her evening.

She fell out of the door hole as her knees gave out, kissing the blacktop painfully as her bad elbow—okay, her _worse_ elbow—refused to move in time to catch her.

"Fuck," she muttered. And that felt good, so she said it harder, forcing herself to her knees and then slowly to her feet. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

She wasn’t sure what time it was. It felt like it should be late, but her perception was a little hazy. It had to be long past closing time, though, so she broke the window without too much concern, and reached inside for the handle. She couldn’t hear an alarm, which probably just meant they had a silent one and someone had already been alerted, but she wasn’t planning on sticking around. She’d be in and out before—

When she got into the room, she paused, staring back at the dozen or so pairs of eyes focused on her. Oh. Not a clinic. A dog shelter, presumably one with a resident veterinarian. Cages lined the walls, and the dogs in them watched her, some warily, some excitedly. A few whined; one barked and then looked embarrassed at drawing attention to itself. 

Clarke turned away and began rifling through their stock. Dog medicine would have to do. Antiseptic and bandages were all the same.

"I guess you’re not here for the adoption drive."

She swung around sharply at the voice. She hadn’t even heard him come in. "Fuck. I’m not looking for drugs."

The man—tall, curly black hair, lab coat, probably one of the vets—eyed her up and down. "You know what, I believe you," he said, after a long pause. He nodded at her hands full of bandage packets. "Need some help?"

Clarke eyed him suspiciously. "Help? I broke in," she couldn’t help but add.

"I work the late shift and we're close to the docks, so believe me, I've had worse. And it looks like you might bleed out before you get to an actual hospital." He shrugged. "But it's your call."

There were a million ways to kill him in this room. The scissors on the bench to her left, the tray of surgical implements, heavy glass bottles full of various liquids, her bare hands... All things considered though, she hoped it wouldn't come to that. She’d spent the evening killing bad guys, and she really didn’t want to end it by killing a vet.

"I could use some help," she admitted, and staggered over to the treatment table, releasing handfuls of bandages, covered in her bloody prints. 

He grabbed a bottle of antiseptic, and held it up, asking her a silent question. Clarke pulled back her shirt, and he hissed slightly at the sight of the deep stab wound in her side. Emerson had started it with a Ka-Bar, fortunately missing anything vital, but both Cage and some nameless soldier had made it worse, and by now it was a fucking mess. "Did you lose a fight with a lawnmower?"

Clarke snorted, and then yelped when he poured antiseptic over the wound, the sensation both burning and freezing. "Fuck. That’s your guess?"

He dabbed at it, trying to clean off the mess and see where the actual wound lay. "My next guess was two lawnmowers."

"Russian mob," she admitted. And she _definitely_ had a concussion. 

The vet’s hands paused for a second, and then continued, moving slowly and carefully. "They still after you?"

"No. I didn’t lose."

His eyebrows raised, but he didn’t take his eyes off his work. "Just like that, huh?"

"Not _just like that_ ," she said, through gritted teeth, as he poked a particularly sore spot. "It took a little work."

"I’d say it’s a tall story, but this is all pretty compelling evidence." He pointed to the wound in her side. "This is going to need stitches. Can you sit still for that?"

"You’ll do them?" she asked, involuntarily.

"Well, you’re not my normal kind of patient, but that just means you’re less likely to pee on me."

Clarke laughed, and then groaned. "Oh, ow. God. Yes, please. I’m very grateful for your help," she said, realizing belatedly that she hadn’t thanked him yet.

The vet had turned to gather equipment from a cupboard above her head, but he glanced down at that. "You’re the politest mobster I’ve ever met, I'll give you that."

"Not a mobster." It felt important. "I’m—I was an assassin. But I’m retired."

He set a kidney bowl next to her, snagged a wheeled stool for himself, and began to unpackage a fresh suture kit. "I don’t like to cast doubt, given that you haven’t pulled a gun on me or anything—but you don’t look retired."

Clarke straightened up, frowning. "No guns. I’m not—I can go. Just stick a bandage on it, and I’ll—"

"Jesus, relax. I said I’d stitch this and I will." His voice was firm, calm, and he waited, not making a move until she slumped back against the table. She could see how he’d be good with animals in pain.

"You’re not going to call the cops?" she asked, more out of curiosity than because she thought he might.

His eyes flicked up to hers, but his hands didn't pause, completing his preparations with smooth, practiced movements. "You broke in because you're bleeding out, I think I can let it slide. Can you get up on the table without help? You can repay me by satisfying my curiosity."

She hoisted herself painfully onto the table, thinking about it. She thought about the thousand justifications she could give for the people she’d killed, about how she’d won her freedom and found peace, and then they’d dragged her back in, forced her into a corner... but really, there was one simple truth. One real reason behind everything. "They killed my dog."

"They killed your dog," he said, flatly.

"Yeah."

"And for that, you took on the entire Russian mob?"

"Just the New York chapter," she objected. The look he gave her was supremely unimpressed. "But... yeah."

"Dogs die here almost every week, you know that? And I hate it, it sucks, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t hunt down every neglectful owner, or bad driver, or idiot who puts down rat poison in the wrong place."

She could tell him—and for a second, she was tempted. She could tell him about Wells, about their complicated history, about what she’d thought for all these years, the guilt that was never his to take on—and then, when it was almost too late, how she’d finally discovered the truth. She could tell him how Daisy was a parting gift, a beloved pet that Wells had entrusted to her, a symbol of so many things she’d thought lost—and how the Russians had taken her life, snuffed her out because she was inconvenient, because she was making a noise, because she didn’t _matter_.

"She was a good dog," she said, finally.

The vet’s eyes softened. "I bet she was," he said, and then cleared his throat. "Okay, hang on to something, because this is gonna hurt."

Twenty stitches and some tidying up later, he sat back and snapped off his gloves, and Clarke dragged her eyes away from the trusting, inquisitive gaze of a soft-looking grey pitbull on the bottom row. "Done."

She peered down at the row of neat stitches, and then tugged her top down to cover them. She’d worn her habitual black, of course, mainly because it didn’t show bloodstains too badly. She could at least make it home without drawing too much attention. "Great. I can deal with the rest."

"Hm."

She looked up. "What? This isn’t my first dance."

"I’m sure. I just..." He sighed heavily, as if he was regretting saying anything. "Look. The stitches will hold if you don't get in any more fights, and they’ll dissolve by themselves in a week or two, but—no offense—you’re a mess right now, and I don't even know what other injuries you've got. So... my specialty is four-legs, but if you need anything else, give me a call, okay? I should be able to do at least a basic patch-up job for a two-legs. Call it professional pride," he said, as she gave him a long, slow look. 

"Why?" she asked, finally.

"I don’t know. Because you love dogs?"

"A dog. I loved _a_ dog," she said, not looking at the pitbull.

He shrugged. "Like I said before, it’s your call."

Clarke tried to read his expression, tried to see past the calm façade to whatever agenda he might be hiding—but, try as she might, she couldn’t find anything that wasn’t genuine. It was frustrating... and intriguing.

"I appreciate it," she said, finally. She was pretty sure she could handle things herself from here on out, but... it was nice, to have the option of backup. Just in case. 

But staying here any longer was a bad idea, for a whole host of reasons, so she gave him a nod and slid down from the table, and walked stiffly towards the exit.

"Hey." 

She paused with one hand on the door, glancing back. 

He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, looking awkward. "How retired are you, really?"

Clarke considered this. "Not as much as I’d like," she admitted. She wet her lips, feeling an unaccustomed flutter as she looked at him. She'd been trying—with limited success—not to notice the sharp angle of his jaw and the generous sprinkling of freckles over his skin, the glint of his dark eyes, the faint smile lines that bracketed his mouth, the way his tightly-cropped hair curled at the ends, hinting at how it would tangle wildly if he let it grow out. His height, the strength in his hands... "Not enough," she made herself say.

"Yeah." He sounded disappointed. "That’s what I thought."

Meeting his gaze, for once she let herself show all the regret she was feeling. She wasn't usually prone to impulsiveness—it wasn't a survival trait, in her line of work—but she didn't bite back the words that rose to her lips. "If you ever need..." She shrugged; it wasn't like a vet was going to need to put a hit out on someone. "Help, or whatever, go to the Hotel Continental and ask for Clarke Griffin."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Okay. Uh. Thanks." He gave her a wry smile. "If you ever need a vet, drop in here and ask for Bellamy Blake." His face turned serious. "And look, I know losing a pet is hard, but if you ever want to think about trying again..."

Clarke nodded. "Maybe I'll be in touch. See you around, Bellamy."

"See you around, Clarke."

As she stepped out into the rainy night, she was surprised to find herself smiling. _We are cursed, you and I,_ Dante Wallace had told her, before she killed him—and she'd agreed, at the time. But now a tiny part of her uncurled, tentative and wary, but persistent nevertheless. 

Hope.


End file.
